Happy Hour
by cruces
Summary: Crowley makes the acquaintance of an ex-Asgardian. Crossover: Good Omens; Thor.


Crowley usually enjoyed strolling through Covent Garden during happy hour on the third Wednesdays of even-numbered months, but on this particular afternoon his mouth was set in a grim line and his vintage Ray-Bans, nicked off the nose of a man who was going to become the producer of the fifty-fifth anniversary season of Big Brother, lay slightly, just barely, askew.

Against his better judgment, Crowley was on his way to single-handedly find and thwart a pagan trickster from outer space from instigating the end of the world. Crowley was well acquainted with the chap with his tail in his mouth who Crowley knew for a fact kept a desk calendar featuring frolicking puppies and kittens that had a date circled in red with the note "WED no mints dunt forget" _thank you very much_. He ducked into a fusion gastro pub that served lemon sake bombs but no Guinness (let it not be said that Crowley _preened_ over this one) for a fortifying drink, and plastered a friendly grin on his face that said of-course-I'm-not-here-to-painfully-discombobulate-you-into-many-unique-pieces as the figure sitting at the far end of the bar looked up and smiled.

Crowley ordered himself an overpriced aperitif and slid into the seat next to a tall ex-Asgardian.

"Good afternoon," Loki said, his smile warming at the edges.

"Afternoon," Crowley said, and took a sip. "What brings you to London?" he asked. The last he'd heard, the second son of Odin was rumored to have gone on a spectacular cordless bungee dive into the Deepest Abyss Of No Return Ever on the arse end of the Horsehead Nebula. "Word on the street was that you were, ah—disinherited. Permanently."

"I managed to hitch a ride before the vacuum got to be too much," Loki replied, smoothing down the front of his coat collar. Loki had actually collided into the vehicle (in a manner reminiscent of stinkbugs meeting windshields) by way of the kind of cross-dimensional chance mathematicians term "abso-positively nuh-_uh_ to the power of No," but the philosophical details of the cross-galaxy trip concerned neither Loki Odinsson nor Anthony Crowley—the latter, because he was getting increasingly distracted by the slow circling of Loki's finger on the dark mahogany surface of the bar, and the former, because he was naturally a creature of a somewhat serpentine persuasion, and what he saw, he liked.

"A pasty fellow on the ship mentioned something called tea. And lo," Loki raised his drink, "Tea."

Crowley refrained from mentioning that that was actually a G&T with extra lime, and raised his glass in a toast, relaxing a fraction of a decimal. Anyone with a real appreciation of tea was probably not going to muck around to bring about the end of the world, since tea plants were native only to the third planet of this one solar system, the only liquid in Hell was in the form of sinners' repentant bodily fluids and pools of burning acid, and the only drink you could get in Heaven, according to a somber Aziraphale, was a watery Milo in a biodegradable cup. Crowley suppressed a shudder. Still, he was not going to take any chances. His grin grew even friendlier.

"Been keeping busy? Sowing the seeds for a little mayhem? Reading up on _Twilight_?" Crowley inquired, the smile on his face growing a tad too wide.

"Oh, nothing so grand," Loki said. "I've been doing some creative work. Just as a consultant, mind you."

Crowley blinked. "Oh?" he said. Loki swirled the tonic round the gin and shrugged. "Three separate brand-new productions of Titus Andronicus this season," he said modestly.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Theater?"

"They're going to be brilliant, if you'll excuse me a wee fanfaronade," Loki said. "Rock musical Titus Andronicus: Turn On the Bloody Lights, real-time crowdsourced Twitter commentary audience-participation Titus Andronicus, and vegan Titus Andronicus."

Crowley set his drink down and gave Loki an appreciative look. "_Avant-garde theater_."

"Two out of three is perfectly respectable, wouldn't you agree? I wholeheartedly believe in supporting the arts," Loki said. "And it's kept me occupied during the downtime."

Crowley snapped out of the dangerous inverse-halo of admiration that had formed around his head. "Aha! The Final Destiny Of–"

Loki interrupted him with a sigh and continued. "Too much downtime, if you ask me. I'm not sure if I'll be able to manage by myself at all." He looked askance at Crowley, who held up his hands and quickly said, "Ragnarök is not really my scene, sorry."

Loki paused, then looked sheepish. "Oh— I've been trying to see what would be the best way of introducing myself to some gallant young men across the pond," he explained. "They might be expecting a... _fête_. I'd hate to disappoint."

"Americans," Crowley said with feeling. Apocalypse was making plans to clip coupons with Great-Aunt Margot on a Saturday night and help her sort through the forty-two gigabytes of photos she and her mates took while on summer holiday in Greece the year before, not a barbeque. Loki politely murmured agreement on the barbeque.

"To the Arts," Loki said, raising his drink.

"To the Arts," Crowley said.

•••••

_A magically disappeared tab later_

"Do you like cars?" Crowley asked.

"_Eminently_," Loki replied.

•••••

End


End file.
